Friday, 30 November 2007

As a good politically aware Canadian girl, I watch the Rick Mercer Report religiously. The dude rocks. Although I am slightly disappointed, as I am sure many are, that he plays for the other team. But I digress.

After RMR, there are always sultry, intriguing previews for The Tudors. Jonathan Rhys Meyers is Henry VIII? Man, if only the pompous lusty royal really looked like that! He could behead me anytime! I really wanted to watch the show, but it is all sequential, and I had already missed the first 5 episodes. What's a poor maiden to do?

Hello, my good friend, BitTorrent. Within one night, I had all 10 episodes at my disposal, ready to indulge in the royal fantasy. And indulge I did. It has me completely hooked. Not only on his Highness's bod, but on the actual history itself. I have the encyclopedia out, wikipedia is open on my laptop, and I am researching until my eyes can't focus on his lovely face anymore.

In fact, my research led me to a trailer for The Other Boleyn Girl, which led me here and then here, which led me to the library to get a copy of this book, which I am devouring like leftover Halloween treats.. I am indeed addicted. I may have to seek some sort of 12 step program once the show ends and I have finished all of Gregory's books. Alas, I cannot bear to think of it: the pain is too great...

Thursday, 29 November 2007

Sacha slept through the night. For the fifth time. Ever. That's right, at 15 months, my son has slept straight through the night 5 times in total.

For the past three weeks or so, he was been waking up 3+ times a night, often requiring Daddy's constant night vigil over the ghools and goblins in his room. Apparently, Mommy is one of these ghools, as he screams bloody murder whenever I would try and put him back to sleep.

And then last night, for some reason, the sleep deities smiled down on us and he slept through the night. From 7 until 7. Brilliant!

Now if only we could figure out wtf we did to make that happen. Maybe we could get on this sleeping-through-the-night bandwagon that every parent says is so wonderful. At this point, I would settle for a one-man-harmonica-toting-accordion-playing-bandwagon. Maybe even just a wagon. No band necessary. Maybe the band is what keeps him up at night...

Saturday, 24 November 2007

I heard the phone ring, checked the caller ID, and saw that it was my Baba (grandma, for all you non-ukrainians). She usually calls to check in on me, and mostly her little sunshine, Sacha. Sacha is her first and only great grandchild, and she lives for him.

This conversation was not a check-in. She was calling to tell me that a little boy in my hometown was killed in a quading accident. I knew this boy. Well, I remember him as a preschooler, which, at 12 years of age, he no longer was. She told me the details as she knew them, and spoke of his mother, crying out to her son to wake up. "I know how she feels," my Baba said, a distinct tear in her voice. 'I know how she feels."

It's not the same, I thought. This was a young boy, killed in a senseless accident. My dad died at 41 years of age, and although it was an accident, he had lived a life, married, and had children. He was an adult. How could it be the same?

After hanging up the phone, I realized it is the same. The young boy was his mother's baby. My dad was my Baba's baby. He may have been 41, but she cried for him and held him on his death bed just as I hold Sacha when he bonks his head or cries in the night, with all the love and care a mother has for her baby. When she thinks of him, she thinks of her lost baby. Just as Sacha is, and will always be, my baby.

I looked at Sacha differently after that conversation. Yes, he is my 15 month old baby boy, but he will always be my baby boy, that I'll live to love and protect as long as I live. And that must be the hardest part for my Baba - feeling like she didn't protect her baby when she should have.

It isn't right for a mother to outlive her child. It just shouldn't happen. But it does, and no matter whether the baby is 2 months old, 12 years old, or 41 years old, it pierces the soul in a way that cannot be repaired nor explained.

Wednesday, 21 November 2007

I recently posted a meme involving seven random things about myself, saying that I was tagged by Team Effort. Little did I know that I was also tagged by Charming Bitch. The thing is, I read Charming Bitch every day! How did I miss that??

So, as penance for my bad speed reading, here are seven more random things you probably wish you didn't know about me:

I made out with 3 different guys in about 24 hours. I'm not proud of it, but that's what being 17 is all about, right?

In total contrast to that, my husband and I made a conscious decision to NOT have sex until we were married.

My husband and I lived together for 6 months before we got married, making #2 very difficult.

I also heart Avril Lavigne. Girlfriend is such a bitchin' song! When I saw her in concert, my sister and I were standing next to a 40-something man who was just givin'er to the music. He was alone. At an Avril Lavigne concert. Scary.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night when my cat starts meowing to no relent, I want to find a 24-hour humane society drop-off.

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

I've NEVER seen anyone get sick like that in my life. Tony kept saying that he was having stomach contractions, and finally, one of them gave birth to the contents of his stomach and his bowel. At the same time.

He was good enough about it to not get me to help him clean it up.

I feel über-bad about it, though, since the reason he got sick was because of my suggestion to go to one of our favourite restaurants in town to have fish and chips. I came out unscathed. He didn't.

Food poisoning at its best.

Now the question is, should I go back to the restaurant and tell them what happened?

Monday, 19 November 2007

Normally, Sacha's doctor appointments are pretty straight forward: we sit in the waiting room for an hour, we get into our room and sit there for a while, then Sacha has his check-up, gets his shots (oh joy), he screams, he gets a sucker, gets over the pain, and we go home.

Today was destined to be atypical.

It usually takes three of us to hold Sacha so that he doesn't squirm as the needles go in. Today, newbie nurse did his shots. She is unaware of this. The first shot goes in fine. After all, Sacha wasn't expecting it. The second shot, however, was a different story. The two of us could not hold him down, and even though she tried to give him the shot, he wriggled as it went in. She then had to dispose of the sharp, get a new one, and start over. By this time, Sacha is in a total state. Newbie nurse goes and gets another nurse to help us out. Three of us are now holding Sacha down and we finally get the needle in properly, although not without damaging our eardrums from the screaming.

Of course, this wasn't all.

He now had to have his regular check-up. Why it wasn't done before all the screaming, I don't know. Sacha screamed as the nurse tried to weigh him, he screeched as we measured his height, he yelped as I measured his head. Then he finally got his sucker. It was too little, too late. He cried as long as the sucker lasted.

The doctor finally comes in to look over Sacha chart. He notices something unusual. Sacha had not gained any weight in 3 months. He weighed him again, and with the new measurement, it showed that Sacha had gained 1 lb in 3 months. Not really enough. He began plotting the numbers on those wonderful percentile charts, only to discover that his weight percentile has been decreasing over the past 8 months, or so. He is now concerned. He checks his height and head circumference percentiles, and notices that these are in good shape and are staying steady, if not increasing (my boy's head is not as small as I once thought, actually).

So now, we are being referred to a pediatrician to see if there is a medical reason that he is not gaining weight. Really, Sacha eats very well. He eats the same food we eat, substituting the occasional dish when it wouldn't suit his palate (like spicy Mexican or Indian foods). The only thing I can think of is that he refuses to drink milk. He'll eat dairy products, but he will NOT drink milk. Would that make a huge difference? I don't really know.

I was not really concerned with Sacha, thinking that he must be gaining weight if he's eating the way he is. Now, thanks to those damn percentile charts, I am concerned.

Have any of you had to deal with the madness of percentiles and realizing that your kid is not really where he should be? Please tell me...

Saturday, 17 November 2007

Tony called me the next day. I believe he may have called me more than once. Not that he was needy. He (and I) both like talking. Phones were invented for people like us.

As much as I liked him, I wasn't sure about getting involved with someone new. I didn't know if I was ready for another relationship with all the drama of my previous one. So I played it cool. I basically set all the stupid dating games aside and just acted completely natural around him, the way I do with my family. I may have farted in his presence. I figured, if it was truly meant to be, he would like me for me and not care about my insanity.

Sure enough, he liked me for me. He went in for a kiss a few days later, and I turned away from it. I told him that I wasn't really ready for a relationship yet, but that I liked being friends with him. Had I known that Tony had been hearing this excuse his entire life, I may have come up with something a little more flashy. Like I had cholera and only weeks to live, and I wanted to devote my life to helping crack-heads get off the street. But I wasn't that creative, and I thought I was being true to myself.

So things went casually. On my end, I was happy with the way things were going. I found myself more and more attracted to him each day. I told myself to wait one month, and if I still felt this way, then I would make my move. On Tony's end, he claims that I devastated him, that he skipped school for a couple of days and did nothing but mope around the house. Apparently he was hit on by a very pretty girl at the grocery store, who asked him which type of pasta sauce he liked, and he stuttered and mumbled "Umn...catelli is good," because all he kept thinking about was me.

Then one evening two weeks later, a Friday the 13th with a full moon, he invited me over to watch a movie with his friends. I met his friends, as well as a cute little mouse living in Tony's walls, which made an appearance and sent Tony racing onto a chair as he squealed for someone to kill it with a broom. Despite this totally laughable scene, I felt even more attracted to him. He wasn't afraid to show his vulnerabilities, which is more than I could say about any of the guys I had dated before.

When the night was over, he drove me home and walked me to the door. I flung my arms around him and planted a good kiss squarely on his lips.

The rest, as they say, is history.

And that wily mouse managed to outsmart all of our traps, a hunting cat, and lived to eat all of Tony's soda crackers in his cupboard.

Wednesday, 14 November 2007

The friday came for our date. We agreed to meet after classes were over and go have coffee somewhere on campus. At this point, I did not drink coffee, but feeling as though that's what all the real students did, I thought that a coffee date was oh-so-classy. I remember carefully choosing what I would wear: a tight black top, accentuating my toned upper-half, some red hip-hugger jeans, and gold hoops in my ears. The combo was casual, but to die for, and my husband says he will never forget the way I looked that day.

Tony, in turn, was wearing a gray top and jeans. The top was one that definitely made him look built, and he had a dog tag around his neck with the initials WWJD. Good christian boy: check!

We went for coffee and neither of us shut up for the entire 2 hours we were there. If you know us in real life, you would attest to that as completely probable. We had so much to talk about, in fact, that we decided to continue our date over dinner. Being students, however, meant that we had limited means of transport. Tony had made prior arrangements with his older sister to borrow her ride, should it be needed. So, we walked about 10 blocks to her basement suite, where he picked up the keys and a little note from the mailbox. I later found out that the note said "Good luck with the love wagon," or something to true poot and cubby effect. Wagon, you ask? Yup. A blue Ford Windstar minivan. It just oozed cool.

We drove to the Olive Garden, where we ate. And we talked. And ate. And talked more. After a couple of hours of conversation, we still felt that there was MORE to talk about.So Tony and his love wagon drove me back to my place, where we watched a movie. As a sign of just how much he must have been smittin, he agreed (excitedly) to watch Shakespeare in Love. Oh so manly! Be still my heart!

On a total side note, for those who think "how could she let a strange guy into her house?" I lived with 3 roommates, one of whom was a man, so my poonani was protected.

Here I am, 15 weeks along with baby #2. I think this picture makes me look pretty good. There are some weird shadow effects going on in my living room. The boobs are definitely winning the race so far! Yikes!

I replied to the e-mail, telling him a little about myself while trying not to divulge too much information. I wasn't really looking for a relationship at that point, seeing how I still felt some attachment to that other guy.

That night, however, I had made plans to see the other guy and some friends while visiting my hometown. We went out clubbing, and then he came back to my place and spent the night. Sleeping, and I am being totally honest here. Just sleep. Turns out that I had been gone three weeks and he had already found himself not only a girlfriend, but the most annoying girlfriend that I could possibly imagine! Seriously, I thought? I'm gone three weeks and you just COULDN'T be alone? Frick! Whatever, man!

The marginal attachment being thrown out the window, I decided to meet the mystery e-mail boy in real life that week in class. I wore some fantastic forest green pants that made me look slender to make the best first impression. I eyed up all the boys in the front row, and decided that my e-mail boy had to be the cute dorky blonde boy. He was a total keener and participated to the max in all of the class discussions, but he was smart. Not your typical nerd who just likes to hear his own voice. He spoke in well-constructed sentences and thought-processes, and I tended to share most of his opinions on all that literature crap.

I approached him after class. He gave me a huge smile, and we talked as we walked toward our next classes (they were in neighbouring buildings). By the end of the conversation, I knew that I wanted to see him again. He, however, was completely unable to ask me out, as he seemed to have been suddenly struck with some sort of stuttering-mumbling disease. I saved him from his ailment and asked him out for coffee on the following Friday.

It was a date.

Oooh, now it's getting interesting. You'll have to check back here for more details!

Monday, 12 November 2007

My last post revealed that I met the Husband after moving to a new city and forgetting to let the other guy know that I was moving on to fresher and greener pastures. Some may wonder how I could be so cold hearted, but they don't the story of how I met my husband, or how I came to be a Mrs.

I was in my first year of university, planning on pursuing a degree in commerce (as my scholarship dictated), and I was taking all the typical first year courses: calculus (which is totally my bag), English, economics, statistics, cellular biology, the works. I was living in a new city and knew no one. My father had just died 6 months prior, and leaving my family was ridiculously difficult. I wanted to find friends, but had no idea how to go about doing that.

I managed to hitch a ride back home for a weekend three weeks after I moved. While there, I made plans to meet up with all my old friends, go clubbing, etc. I still had homework to do, so I went over to my grandmother's house to use her computer (my mom didn't have one). Part of our English course requirements were to discuss our readings on a class webboard, on which we were required to post at least once a week. I went to check my e-mail, and found one from a sender I did not recognize: Tony van WHAT??

I opened it (viruses were not a concern back in the good old days of dial-up internet) and found it to be seriously cute. He said that he was in my English class and that he found my webboard posts most interesting. He complimented my intelligence without mentioning my breasts (although they were quite small compared to their current size) and I was intrigued. I wondered who this mystery boy was. He said that he sat in the front row and answered a lot of questions in class. I also sat in the front, and I was having a hard time picturing a guy who answered a lot of questions. Then, it hit me. He was probably the blonde boy with the glasses and dorky hair. Cute, but so in need of some fashion tips.

I called my best friend and told her about the e-mail, asking her what I should do. She was in a similar situation with a new guy, and we decided to go for it. So I e-mailed him back.

Sunday, 11 November 2007

I read a post by the brilliant Jennifer at Breed Em And Weep a while back, and have been stewing over this for some time, unsure of whether this story was best left in a closed book. Now, I know that I need to make peace with myself, if not with the other person of which this story speaks.

Before my husband, there He was. He was my first love, my best friend, and often my loathed enemy. It was rocky, unstable, and unconventional, but it was ours and we were ok with that. We weren't always exclusive, but He was always there, waiting in the wings to hold me and watch the sunrise over the river valley.

Things went awry after my dad passed away, leaving me with many emotional questions and wondering what should be and what should be let go. I let Him go, but I forgot to tell Him that. We were living in different cities, and I thought it was implied that we would each keep that love in our hearts, but move on. I forgot to tell Him that, too.

I met this boy in university and we decided to commit our lives to each other, but I forgot to tell Him that. He never spoke to me again. He treated me with disdain, hatred, and anger. Certain He hated me, I never spoke to him either, although always wondering and wishing that He would get on with his life, fulfill his potential, and move on. We had mutual friends, so I always knew how He was doing, but I doubted if He took the same interest in my doings.

Then I got a letter. An explanation. An apology. He hadn't known how to move on, only how to be angry. Being angry was the only way He knew how to deal with the fact that I had moved on without telling Him, without giving Him a chance to say goodbye or to tell me what he really felt. He says this spared him more tears than He could have ever lived to cry.

Tears catch up with you, though, and I'm pretty sure that's what inspired the letter.

No matter how much I love my husband, He will always be a part of me. I just wish that I hadn't forgotten to tell Him that. Then maybe we could have both shed the tears we needed to and learned how to move on, together but apart, and not hurt each other like we did.

Tuesday, 6 November 2007

I'm going out on a limb. I have a date tomorrow night. A coffee date with a prospective mommy-friend. This shouldn't be so nerve-racking, but it is.

I don't really have any friends in this town since a certain friend MOVED (but that's another story) and I get pretty lonely going to playgroups and watching the other mommies have a grand old time visiting and gossiping while I pretend to be thoroughly engrossed with Sacha's tremendous painting skills. Don't get me wrong, the kid is Picasso reincarnated, but I'm really not that into art.

This is all very absurd. I'm wondering what to wear, what to order when I get there, should I talk about mommy things or should I try and strike up a conversation about, oh, the booming Canadian economy and our fantastic dollar. Do I tell her that I knit? Oh no, what if she thinks that's nerdy. Or that I have been known to obsess about fashion, or my looks, or my acne, or...

Sigh. Making friends was so much easier when I was the kid in the playgroup: You wanna be friends? Ok!

I can only hope that she doesn't read my blog and then discover that I am writing about her and OMG that I am a total loser for obsessing over this.

Ugh.

Really, though, what are the odds that she reads my blog? No ones reads my blog.

Saturday, 3 November 2007

After writing my last post, I feel I should explain something (unless you know me in real life, then this post is old news to you).

I do not have a student loan. Yes, I did complete 5 years of university and I have a B.Ed to show for it (with distinction, if I can toot my own horn). My parents were not rich. They were barely middle class. I was the eldest of the children, and I used to watch my mom balance her cheque book (did I mention that I am a math nerd?) and see all the negative signs. I knew they had no money. I knew there was no money for me to go to school. I knew that I would have to rely on scholarships and loans if I were to get a higher education.

In January of my senior year, I received notice from the University of Alberta that I had received a $4000 open scholarship and several faculty specific scholarships. The most valuable of these was from the faculty of engineering, offering an additional $2000 in comparison to the other faculties. I had no desire to be an engineer. I didn't even know what an engineer did. To be honest, I am still not quite sure. My dad saw the scholarship letter, and was ecstatic. "Just because you don't know what an engineer does doesn't mean you won't like it. Try it for a year, then you'll know." I laughed, because we both knew that the fancy scholarship was the main motivation behind this.

At this point, I was not sure whether I would even attend the U of A. I had been considering going to a technical college and becoming an X-Ray tech and continuing on to sonography. No technical colleges were calling me up and offering thousands of dollars to study there, and so I decided that the U of A would most likely be my destination.

In February of that same year, my father was killed in a work-related accident. Because his death was the result of a workplace incident, my mother began receiving a pension from the workman's compensation board in addition to the regular life insurance that he had. This workman's compensation money is what enabled me to go to school and not worry about the money. Granted, I still kept my grades up in order to earn scholarships and I worked hard in the summer to help pay for my education, but my dad is the reason that my sisters and I do not have loans.

I was able to graduate without worrying about debt or securing a job - any job - just to make my loan payments. I was free to choose what I wanted. Not all graduates have this luxury. My dad didn't even this luxury. He died working underpaid at a job that he did not like, just to pay the bills. Just to pay for piano lessons, dance lessons and hockey equipment for his daughters.

I was fortunate. But if I could trade it all to spend another day with my dad and introduce him to my husband and his grandson, I would.

Friday, 2 November 2007

Our financial adviser just called us, and it got me thinking about RESPs. Most people come out of university (or any post secondary education) with student loans. Student loans are a bitch and, if they are the government loans that most students in Canada get, can take 10 years to pay off at a rate of prime + 5%. In the meantime, these ex-students get married, have kids, and can barely afford to put money into their kids' RESPs because they are spending hundreds of dollars every month paying off their loans.

In our case, my husband had a mere $10,000 loan for 6 years of university (he's smart and got a whackload of scholarships). Be that as it may, his loan payments were amortized over 10 years and the payments were to be over $100 a month. That's a piddly loan comparison to most people. I'm sure most people are paying over $300 or $400 a month to pay their schooling off.

Here's my idea: give some sort of cut or lower interest rate to loan-payers who are contributing to an RESP. Really, by contributing to the RESP, you are trying to ensure that your child will not have to take out as large of a loan as you did, so you are helping the loan company (government, bank, mafia) not have to lend as much of their precious money in the future. Makes sense, no?

Thursday, 1 November 2007

With full intentions of taking the little dude out to score me some sweetsshow off his costume introduce Sacha to trick or treating, that is not how the night went:

Sacha, despite his total love affair with Elmo and all things Elmo-related, did not want to wear his costume for more than 20 minutes.

A visit to Tony's work with Sacha-Elmo in tow provided a large bag of Cheetos, Smarties, Lipton Raspberry White Tea (Sacha's favourite) and assorted other sugary substances. It was enough to give even a pregnant lady a sugar high.

Sacha's desire to consume all of said items in the shortest time possible made him a total loon for the rest of the afternoon.

Sacha also discovered the wonderful sweet sugary taste of rockets, which were one of the candies we were giving out. He got very upset when I started giving them to strangers knocking at the door.

The weather turned totally foul right at trick-or-treating time. By foul, I mean wind that blows full garbage cans into the road and rain that bounces back up from the ground. And hits you sideways.

So what can I say? We didn't go out this year. Instead, we spent the night doling out candy to kids in droves. I even gave a couple of teenagers shit for showing up at the door in minimal festive attire and muttering "hey" instead of the standard "trick-or-treat." I told him that his voice was deep enough that he probably had enough money to buy his own candy, and the least he could do was say trick or treat if he expected anything from me. Oh yeah, I went there. It burns my ass that kids that old are out ringing my bell for free candy, then probably taking it to their car, hotboxing the damn thing and snorting crushed rockets. Oh, and then having a lot of sex with equally annoying scantily clad girls.

We shut the place down at 7:00, by which time we'd already had 180 kids and ran out of candy. We turned off all the lights, put Sacha to bed, and sat in the dark watching TV. Despite all these obvious signs that we had no candy left, some speedfreak kids showed up at 7:45 and rang the doorbell like their finger was glued to it. It was enough to wake up Sacha. This, coupled with Tony's inherent distaste for adolescents, sent him racing down the street in the rain after the kids to give him a piece of his mind. Sadly, kids can outrun my husband, so I got to hear a lecture about the ills of their generation when he returned.

The evening ended with some good old ANTM. Ya, I can be shallow like that. It's my guilty pleasure.